The Lesson Plan -- Part Four (Episode One: The Audition) free porn video

The Lesson Plan -- Part Four Episode One: The Audition Chapter 1 I'd forgotten what it was like to audition for something. Not the preparation, the worry and anxiety, the learning the pages, the decisions about how to do a scene. That I hadn't forgotten. But the act of walking into a room, facing two strangers and being on, transforming instantly, delivering everything you've got and then, just as quickly, it being over. That I'd forgotten. How fast it is. How quickly it seems pointless. It's not like the movies. Not really. You don't sit with a bunch of hopefuls, anxiously waiting your turn to get called. You get a slot, a time to be there. A room to prepare. It's all very civilized. And I'd gotten a call: My ex-roommate from college, putting on a play he'd written, that he had funding for workshopping. It was maybe going to be off-off-broadway. He thought I'd be perfect. Initially I'd turned him down. I'd made a promise, and I had a job. I was inhabiting a life. Acting my socks off every minute of every day. He'd phoned one night just as I got in, and it had taken a second to remember who he was. Who I was. I'm so used to being someone else. "Scott! How are you?" I'd said, forcing my voice down into my chest, making it sound more masculine than I felt. "Kev! I'm good man, it's good to talk to you. How's life?" I'd sat on my couch, crossing my legs at the thigh on autopilot and reached down to unzip the knee-length boots I was wearing, letting them fall heavily to the floor. My legs in brown pantyhose, a red leather skirt and fitted patterned blouse, I was probably not looking how Scott was picturing me. I was living the life of my aunt, Ellen Bennet -- a forty-three year old bombshell of a woman -- thanks to some amazing prosthetics and an even more amazing mask. "Life's good. I'm doing some teaching," I'd said. "What about you?" "Life's good here too man. Remember The Play? It's done. It's happening. I need you here. Can you come down on monday?" "Seriously?" I'd uncrossed my legs and sat forward, excited. The Play had been in the works for so long. We'd talked about it constantly. We'd made a deal. But I had class. I had made another promise. "Seriously! I'm just starting casting and called you first. We have to do this man. I haven't even got a shortlist for the other roles. You're it." "I can't Scott, sorry. I just, I have to be here." I'd said. We'd talked more, caught up a little, but I could tell he was disappointed. Hell, I was disappointed. I was putting my life on hold, again, for Ellen. Then things had changed. Andrew had persuaded me that he was ready to go out. Begged really. Constantly. He was desperate to be out in the world, to experience life as a teenage girl. I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure about what we were doing at all, but it seemed like the safest bet. I could pretend that it was just another type of education. Another sort of lesson. He'd turned up with that dress and he'd known my secret and so I'd allowed myself to be blackmailed. He obviously lusted after Ellen, and so I'd been quick to set some ground rules. No nudity, no touching, nothing inappropriate, even though it all was inappropriate really. It wasn't long before voice and deportment lessons became makeup and clothing. And then you were gluing fake boobs to his boyish chest and looking away from the obvious bulge in his cotton panties. No, Andrew's reasons for wanting to be a girl were different from mine, for sure. Maybe in some ways purer. He wanted it. He got off on it. I just wanted to be good at it. I relented, if only because I thought maybe that could be the end. Maybe my little chick could spread his wings and fly free and stop making me feel guilty or wierd whenever he was around. Maybe I could get my Wednesdays back. So, I relented, and I arranged a meetup with Melanie and her mom, and hoped for the best. And it was going pretty well until the real Ellen Bennet turned up. ---- In my second year of college I'd moved off campus and moved into my own apartment with three other guys that I found on a billboard. We were all students, but studying different things -- there was Craig, a computer science guy who never left his room; Gavin, a geography student if you can believe that; Scott, an English major and me. We got along pretty good, mainly because we were all hardly ever there at the same time. Scott and I became friends quickly over a shared enthusiasm for theatre. We'd queue for student tickets together, go see terrible plays together, and talk late into the night about ideas for how we could change theatre forever. Once I dropped out though we lost touch except for an occasional email. I haven't seen him for a couple of years. "Kevin, you ready?" Scott popped his head round the practice room door and I gave him a smile, gathering my things and heading towards the audition room. I'm Kevin Daly, a twenty-something man, failed actor and negligent boyfriend. The past few months living as the forty-something goddess that is my aunt has changed so much about me, that I've had to have a crash course in being me again. It's been like learning to be Ellen in reverse: using the naked feeling of no mask on my face to relax my smile, the feeling of loose clothing changing my posture, the lack of perfume on my wrists and neck to help me move less fluidly. Funny how being Kevin is defined by the lack of being Ellen. For a fleeting second I wish it was Ellen auditioning now. I know exactly the dress she would wear, what accessories, what perfume. I know how she could be, charming strangers with her warm vivaciousness. It takes all my strength not to become her in my Kevin drag of loose jeans and smart ironed button-down shirt. I'm Kevin Daly. I'm not a woman. I'm totally ready. Inside the small room there's two men behind a desk - Scott and another guy I don't know - and a young woman behind what looks like a mobile phone on a tripod. "Hi, I'm Kevin Daly," I say, brimming with fake confidence. "And I'm reading for Pete." I take a second to find the mood, to inhabit the character - the guy Scott and I talked about, basically a surrogate for Scott himself growing up. And then I start. I get all my lines right, but that's all that I have going for me. Even I can tell the reading is off, the character isn't quite right. I'm second-guessing myself. It feels off. I feel off. After it's over I shake everyone's hand and leave. I know I've blown it. They know I've blown it. I've forgotten how to act as anyone else. I'm halfway out the building when Scott catches me up. "Dude, that was..." How I feel is written all over his face. "I know. I know." I feel stupid; dissapointed in myself; unprepared. I feel like I might have blown my chance. If I could just have another shot maybe then I could... "Listen, can I give you the number of someone?" I ask, pulling out my phone and showing Scott a photo. "You might like her for Joan? She's good." You do stupid things in the moment. Which is the only rationale I can think of for giving Scott Ellen's cell number. ---- Andrew -- Amy -- had looked better than he'd ever looked before, leaving my house that night to go to Melanie's house party in her polka-dot dress. I was strangely proud. Like watching a daughter's first date, except not really. A daughter who's makeup you'd done and wig you'd styled and who you'd hope wouldn't get discovered and also then maybe ruin your own career. I'd dropped her off and watched her go up the driveway and then come home and tidied up the bombsite Andrew had left behind - makeup and hangers, packaging and all his stuff that I allowed him to keep here. I'd gotten changed -- into just a t-shirt and booty shorts -- and poured myself a glass of wine. Normally Saturdays were date nights with Shayna, but I'd postponed this week for Andrew. Normally Saturdays were for getting out of costume and breathing, but not tonight. I wasn't expecting Amy back but I'd rather not take any chances. For all the talk about knowing my secret, it was easier to be aunt Ellen with him than uncle Kevin. Shayna and I weren't doing too great either, truth be told. I was a lousy boyfriend -- not least because I was spending almost all my time as Ellen. School work was a lot, and that plus the drama club meant that I didn't have much free time. We'd gone from texting at least ten times a day to not even talking all this week. I stared at my phone and started to type something but stopped. She'd be out with her friends -- girls her own age. I'd joked once about going out with them for a girls' night out, and she'd laughed, but no invitation had come. Suddenly the door had opened. I'd sat up surprised, and watched myself come in. Ellen Bennet. Returned from the west. I watched, dumbfounded as she took off her coat and wheeled in a huge suitcase. She'd lost a little weight, and changed her hair. "Ellen?!" I haven't heard from Ellen since that first week. No texts, no phone calls. Nothing. I refused to call her and she refused to call me back. I had been furious with her. I am furious with her. "Hey kiddo," she said, wearily. ---- Of course Scott called almost the moment I left his studio; Ellen's phone buzzing in my satchell. I found her almost immediately, slipped her on like a favourite dress. Her walk, posture, cheekbones, and smile all fell into focus in an instant. "Hello?" I answered the phone brightly in Ellen's voice, faking confusion. "Who is this?" "Hi, is this Ellen? A friend of yours, Kevin Daly, gave me your number. He said you were an actress?" "Oh he did? Well that's very sweet of him. Yes, that's right. Although I've been teaching for a little while now. What did you say your name was?" I keep walking, weaving my way through pedestrians and taxis on busy New York streets. No one bats an eyelid. "I'm Scott Mills. I'm a writer and producer. I was wondering if you might want to meet for coffee? You're in Manhattan right?" "I am, that's right. Tomorrow afternoon any good?" "Do you know Everyman Espresso at the Classic Stage Company? What about there at 10?" "Oh I love it there. That sounds perfect. It's a date Scott Mills. See you then." "Yeah," he laughs. "It's a date. Ellen, have you spoken to Kevin about this? About this part?" "No," I lie. "I haven't spoken to him for a while actually. Why?" "Just... It's just you sound perfect." ---- "I should explain," Ellen had said, standing in her living room. My twin. Almost my twin. She seemed somehow less impressive than when I'd seen her last. She seemed almost ordinary. "Where have you been?" I asked, incredulously. "What the hell Ellen?" "Michelle's mom died," she started, sitting down on the chair opposite me. "And then she needed me to stay around until things got back to normal." "It's been months Ellen," I replied flatly, my Ellen voice still in place. "Months of living your life, teaching your class." "I heard you were doing a great job, so I ... may have taken my time coming back. You look great, by the way," she added. I was furious. Furious at her for leaving me. Furious at her for telling Chalmers my secret. I was furious at her for coming back. I don't know how I'd thought this story would end but I hadn't imagined it would be so boring. No mistaken identity involving cross-gartered stockings or a job interview dinner. No farce or romantic moment. Just Ellen, home from her life break, ready to start again just days from the end of the semester. "Well, I'll get going," I said, standing up and almost shaking with anger, storming up the stairs and into her room as she called something out after me. I practically tore the wig from my head and almost sunk my nails into the mask before sense prevailed. I grabbed the solvent and locked myself in the bathroom and, surprised to find that I was crying, carefully took off my mask and body prosthetics. The show was over. The final curtain. No applause. She was still downstairs when Kevin emerged to the deafening silence that filled the house. I packed my things and, after a moment's hesitation, added the mask, wig and prosthetics. I didn't want her to have them. They were mine, weren't they? They wouldn't fit anyone else. "Kevin," she started as I emerged back down the stairs, my bag in hand. "Kevin we need to talk." "Why start now?" I said as I slammed the door behind me. ---- I had an audition. I had a face, hair and a killer body. What I didn't have were clothes. Luckily, I was in the best shopping city in the world. I arrive back at my Airbnb a few hours later and unpack my spoils: fake nails and fake eyelashes in plastic packages, red nail varnish and a pack of women's razors; A pair of thick nude spanx, nude control-top pantyhose and a black pushup bra; A small sample bottle of perfume, a pair of cute silver earrings; a pair of black ankle boots and a small clutch bag. Lastly, the dress -- or rather, the dresses. I hadn't been able to decide. To be safe, and because I couldn't check sizes, I'd bought a white print wrap maxi dress that was feminine and pretty and guaranteed to fit. And then, because I know Scott, I'd bought the other dress. I strip off down to my boxers and run my hands over my legs. I haven't waxed them in a while because I'd been avoiding Shayna. There's a little stubble. Same on my chest; and with an early start tomorrow, I guess I know what I'm doing tonight. The Airbnb is really very nice, a reasonable apartment in the upper west side with modern decoration, a nice kitchen and comfy leather sofas. The only snag is that the whole apartment isn't mine for my stay, I just have a room. The room is big enough for a double bed and had an ensuite bathroom, much to my delight. There's a wardrobe too, but when I opened it I found it full of a man's clothes and so quickly shut it. Still, my own bathroom means I can run a bath, relax, shave my legs and chest in peace, and spend the rest of the night styling my wig back into shape without fear of being interrupted. I go to bed early, enjoying the feeling of smooth legs on the soft sheets. Chapter 2 My alarm sounds at six the next morning and I bound out of the soft white bed like a kid on Christmas morning. I snap my wig cap into place and set to work, painting the inside of my Ellen mask with glue and carefully putting it on, starting with the nose and working up and around the eyes at first, smoothing down the thin latex and making it stick. Once the upper half is transformed I start on the lower half, watching Ellen's cheekbones and jawline emerge. I've done this job a hundred times now, and I can do it on autopilot, but this time I pause and take a moment when it's done to just look. Turning my face this way and that and admiring her. My skin already feels tight in a comforting way. I decide to finish my makeup first, dabbing a little concealer around each eye and then unscrewing the half tube of foundation and squeezing some onto my fingers and applying an even coat. A little blush, and a puff of powder. I start on my eyes, adding a slightly darker shade on the lid and then applying liquid liner. Brows are filled in with a dark pencil. The fake lashes are next, trimmed and gingerly glued into place and given an experimental flutter. I outline my lips with a dark red pencil and then, in bold, practiced strokes, fill in with my favourite lipstick. The overall effect is not quite school teacher, not quite date night but somewhere in between. Glamorous for sure. From inside the apartment I hear the sounds of movement -- I guess my hosts are getting up for work. I check the clock on my phone: 730. I've got to get a wiggle on. The source of that wiggle lies on the floor -- my silicon lady lumps. I unceremoniously pull off my boxer shorts and open the pot of glue for my pads, noticing it's almost empty before painting some on the inside of my left hip. I don't need to line up or measure my prosthetic hips any more, I just know where they sit and so I hold them in place and count down from twenty in a whisper. A light suddenly shines in the hallway, illuminating a little yellow strip under my door. I hear the muffle of voices and a kettle being turned on. I tentatively release the pressure on my fake hip and feel the glue take the weight before repeating the process on the other side. My buttocks are next, glued and held into position.To finish off my bottom half my fake pussy is glued into place, hiding the unwanted bulge of my cock behind a feminine mound and soft curls. I wiggle my new curves into my newly-bought spanx, smoothing out my silhouette and nipping in my already skinny waist. The panyhose are next, unwrapped from their packet and rolled up. I'm about to slide them up my foot when I spot my toenails are still painted, if a little chipped, from last week. "Don't have time for that," I mutter to myself, pulling the bunched pantyhose over my feet and gliding them up my smooth legs. I slide my hands over them, smoothing them out and wrestling the control tops into place over my curvier hips. My hands linger on my ass, giving the round soft flesh a squeeze. I pick up a jiggling breast, glue the underside and hold it up against my chest, my nipple buried under inches of silicone. After a few minutes the matching other breast followed, giving me back my aunt's impressive bust. I cut the tags of my new bra, adjust the straps and slide them up my bare arms, nestling the cups of the bra under my jiggling boobs and reaching behind to fasten it tight around my ribs. I have the figure to match my face. I'm a woman again. A bald woman. Hair can wait. My face breaks into a broad smile as I take a moment to enjoy Ellen's body, walking around the room in my underwear and remembering again the sway and bounce of her gait. The prosthetics help, of course, but there's also just the swish of nylon and the tight squeeze of a bra strap to remind me how to walk and how to carry myself. The floorboards creak under me as I walk. I have to thread a fine needle this morning -- feminine but not submissive, sexy but not camp. I have to make Scott want me. The dress is over-the-knee, tight and leopard print with a high neck and three-quarter length sleeves. There's nowhere to hide. Any woman wearing this dress is guaranteed to be the center of attention, especially a woman with curves like mine. I unzip it and step inside, threading my arms through the sleeves. It's already tight on my arms, almost bursting when I work my hands though. When I start to zip it up my body, things get interesting. My ample bottom and hips are clearly too big, and so I have to work the zip up over them an inch at a time, hoping I don't disturb the glue, or bust the zip. Amazingly after minutes of grunting and forcing I manage to get the zip closed to my waist and then start the process all over again with my jutting bust. Eventually, with a lot of contortions and praying, I zip it closed and fiddle with it until it's sitting ok with no wrinkles or bunching. There's a bit of stretch to the fabric, which is just as well. Satisfied, I turn to look at myself in the mirror and burst out laughing. I look like a cartoon -- more than Ellen ever has. I'm all tits and hips and legs. The high neck actually makes my boobs look bigger by not showing any skin. My male brain wouldn't be able to stare at anything else, and would think about what might be underneath for days to come. Scott will be helpless. I slowly and carefully sit down, testing the dress to see if it will hold. Thankfully that stretch comes to the rescue as I feel my ass spreading under me. The chestnut wig goes easily onto my head now, secured in place with some pins and brought to life with a brush and primp, the loose curls falling to frame my face and dance on my shoulders. The last step is my fingernails: cheap press ons that come in a box with glue and a nail file. I stick each on in turn, transforming my hands in a simple step, and wait for the glue to set before I file them into shape and paint on polish that matches my lips. It's quicker than going to a salon, but still takes almost half an hour sitting at the dressing table with my legs crossed. I'd normally use the time to talk to myself, practicing my voice for the day ahead, but my hosts are still home, bustling about and generally making their presence felt. Mercifully, as I wait for the glossy varnish to dry, I finally hear the front door lock and silence descends. "Good morning," I say, launching into my daily ritual. "Good morning. Good morning." Each repetition is better than the last. Higher, rounder. More Ellen. I focus on my cheekbones, on my breathing, on opening my throat. I relax. I feel so good right now. "Good morning. It's so nice to meet you. Hi there, I'm Ellen. It's so nice to meet you." The nail varnish dry, I stand up and move around the room, getting used to walking all over again with the dress and wig in place. I grab the earrings during one orbit and thread them through my pierced lobes, enjoying the weight of the dangle. The perfume is next, with a spray on each wrist and one on my neck. I drop the little bottle into the clutch bag along with Ellen's phone, Ellen's Visa card, the key to the Airbnb and some emergency makeup -- lipstick, powder and glue. I slip my stocking feet into the booties and zip them up with careful nails. I'm ready. I turn back to the mirror and look at myself from head to toe as a crossdresser -- checking for anything that will give me away. I do the same again as a woman -- checking for anything wrong with my outfit, hair, makeup or accessories. Finally, I do the same as a man -- great tits, amazing ass, nice smile. "Hi Scott, I'm Ellen. I want to suck your cock," I say, forming each word with hypersexualised lips. I turn on my heel and open the bedroom door, ready to leave my airbnb and audition for my life. Right into the path of a strange man standing in the hallway, dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his waist. He's about mid-twenties, and not the guy I'd been talking to when I booked the place. He is impressively cute, with a well muscled chest and six-pack. "Hi," I offer brightly, smiling at him. Shit. Shit shit shit. "Who are you?" he asks, looking me up and down. "I'm Ellen, it's nice to meet you," I say, holding out my hand. I'm quite pleased with my voice, considering how little warmup I got, it's sounding pretty good. "You're not... where's the guy? Is he in there?" He takes my hand and wetly shakes it, learning to look past me into the half-closed bedroom. I should have tidied up after myself. Makeup is out on tables, open packets of pantyhose and eyelashes are dotted around the floor. "James never tells me anything," he adds. "Your boyfriend?" I guess. "You own the place together?" I fall into my usual playbook of Ellen tricks, which is to just keep asking friendly questions armed with a bright smile. "That's right, he owns the place though. He's older." I think back to James, the guy I met yesterday. He is older that this guy, but not as old as Ellen. "Than me," he clarifies. "The apartment is lovely," I gush, hoping to wind this up. I can feel my voice flexing and stretching into place. "Maybe I'll see you later?" "Sure, have you got a key?" he asks. "From the box?" "I've got a key," I reply, not mentioning I got it straight from his boyfriend. I slowly step past him towards the door. "I'll be back later on if that's okay?" I quickly close the door behind me and walk towards the elevator at the end of the hall. I didn't get the guy's name, but he didn't seem that stupid. I was pretty sure he'd be in my room already, taking a look around. As I wait for the elevator to reach my floor I do a mental walk around the room, thinking about what I've left out: makeup, shopping bags, my luggage with all of Kevin's clothes. There's only two conclusions I figure he can come to: either that I'm an escort or that I'm a crossdresser. The bell sounds as the car arrives and I step into the empty space, pushing the ground button. A problem for later, I decide, taking a deep breath as the doors close in front of me. Ellen Bennet is reflected back at me, and she's got an audition. Chapter 3 The Classic Stage Theatre cafe is in the East Village, about one- hundred and thirty blocks away, but thankfully the subway will take me straight there. It's just after 9 am now, so I should be able to get there in time. I buy my ticket and wait on the platform on the A line, arms crossed and impossibly trying to make myself inconspicuous. Of course, this is Manhattan and no one cares. I step onto the first train that comes, and stand holding onto a rail. It's a busy carriage -- even after 9 this far north -- and full of people in suits and office wear and students. The only thing that marks me out is my lack of headphones as everyone else is lost in their old world. One of the problems I initially had in my performance as Ellen was getting used to the space she occupied and the space she was given. Obviously my prosthetics added inches in places I wasn't used to having, but also the clothes she wore and the way she carried herself meant that while her body was larger, the space she appeared to need was considerably less so. And both of these things were also at odds with the space she was given -- people tended to crowd her. Both men and women stood closer to me to talk to me as Ellen, and gave me less personal space in things like bar queues or sitting on the subway. I'd learnt all of this and was good at absorbing it, letting it influence my Ellen performance and putting it into practice. While I couldn't actually feel things like my hips or bottom being lightly touched, I had somehow become more aware of it despite that fact. Which is why I knew without turning around that the young man in the suit, standing behind me, had his hand on my ass. I was squeezed on all sides as the carriage burst with people, and had even received an apologetic smile from the petite girl in front of me, who had turned her head to avoid being consumed by my bust. But this was different. I could feel my ass not just being pushed up against but also supported. Not squeezed. Just cupped lightly. I could see his face reflected in the glass darkly, looking at me in the reflection with calm detachment. This was his lucky day -- I was here, and he was taking advantage of that. What I thought about it wasn't even entering into his thought process. We stayed like that until Rockefeller Center, the whole sea of people surfing each bump and jostle as one. At that stop half the carriage cleared out and I sat demurely next to the petite girl: legs together, hands in my lap, looking at the floor. I resisted the urge to run my hand over my bottom before I sat down. I didn't look at him as he stepped off two stops later. I'd forgotten about it by the time I got off at Lafayette and started the short walk to the theatre. My new boots were already pinching my heels. The cafe had a good vibe the moment I stepped inside the theatre lobby. It was warm and smelled of rich coffee. I looked around and spotted Scott already camped at a table, sharing with another couple but with a free seat. Of course Ellen didn't know him and he didn't know her. I make a show of looking around at the other tables, even when I sense him looking in my direction - we're all actors in small moments of everyday -- and realise, happily, that even if I didn't know him he would still be the best candidate. I return his gaze, catch his eye and break out a one-hundred watt smile as I walk over in a catwalk strut: slow, confident and elegant -- you could have balanced books on my head. I want him to look me over and I want him to wait for me. "Hi, you must be Scott," I say brightly, looking him in his blue eyes as he stands up. He knows these eyes, but not this face. Not this body. Will he know me? His gaze wanders, like all men, over my boobs and legs, but at least he tries to hide it by checking me out as he gets to his feet. "I'm Ellen." "I am," he says, returning my smile. "Amazing to meet you Ellen." He reaches in to kiss my cheek but I decide to play a game and turn my head at the last moment, presenting him with my lips. He kisses me, lingering only a moment, drinking in my perfume and the warmth of me. First impressions count. Scott has kissed me before, a long time ago. A kiss on the cheek that, at the time, I brushed off as drunken playfulness. We'd been drinking: out with friends until the wee hours, celebrating a birthday. Was it Scott's? I can't remember. I do remember us sitting next to each other around a table and him suddenly leaning over and kissing me, then laughing it off. "Amazing to meet you too," I say tilting my head, slightly mocking him. I run my hands over my curvy bottom, smoothing this skin tight dress before I sit -- but also so that he'll watch the gesture -- and sit down next to him. I sit balanced on the edge of the seat, with great posture -- shoulders back, tits out -- hanging on his every word as he sits next to me, his knees brushing against mine at the cramped table. I look at Scott and try to see him as Ellen would. He's young -- mid twenties --and in good shape: trim with muscle tone, bulging biceps and toned forearms, shown off by a tight grey t-shirt. His jeans are blue and fit well, not slung low or too tight. He wears white sneakers and they're impossibly clean, like they're just new. Sandy blonde hair that sits messily on a thin face with a little stubble. He's also wearing a scent that I like instantly. He's kinda hot. "Kevin didn't say you were cute," I say, pushing my luck but also testing a theory. He blushes fast, just like I remember, but instead of stammering a response he just laughs. The couple sharing our table -- two young girls of college age -- smirk into their coffees. I cross my legs at the thigh and lean forward. "So, tell me about your play." "In a minute. Can I get you a coffee?" He looks around to catch the attention of our server. I order an espresso and a glass of water. "You've been here before?" he asks, after they leave. "I've been on stage here," I say, lying. "I was Lady MacBeth about... wow, a million years ago in a production set in the fifties." "How long was the run?" "Oh, I mean, a week I think. Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters and all that. It was fun. I had the most ridiculous beehive wig," I laugh, giving him the full Ellen -- the smile; the pat on the leg; the warm gaze. "Ancient history." "You don't seem that old to be talking like that," he says. "You're so sweet! I'm probably old enough to be your mother." My espresso arrives, and I thank the server before taking a sip. Bitter and too hot. I smile at the red lipstick stain on the rim and set the tiny cup down. "Funny you should say that," Scott says, watching me intently. "I'm not your mother. I'd have remembered." "No, you were asking about my play," Scott says with a chuckle. "It's a little autobiographical. It's about my childhood." "Oh, tell me," I say. "It's about my step-mother. She came to live with us when I was eighteen, just about to leave for college. We'd lost my mother when I was twelve, so it had just been my dad and me for the longest time. Anyway, it's about that summer." "Sounds interesting! What happened?" "Kevin hasn't told you about this?" "Girl Scout's honour," I say, holding up two fingers. "We had an affair," he says bluntly. "We spent the summer sleeping together." "Wow," I say, faking surprise. "Wow. She must have been some woman." Scott looks at me for a moment before answering. Does he know? Am I getting away with this? "She was," he says finally. "That's an unusual reaction to this story Ellen. Why do you say that?" "I guess people usually say they're sorry for your father or something? Or ask if you were seduced. Or the seducer?" I keep my eyes on his. "Usually. But then they're not auditioning to play my step-mother." "I'm not auditioning. Not yet. This is just coffee. I'm just interested in her thought process, that she joined a family and still wanted to sleep with her step-son. And acted on it. That's a lot to think about." "You're not turned off?" "Quite the opposite," I say without thinking, the double meaning hanging in the air. Scott laughs. "So how has it affected you? Can I ask you?" "Well, my dad and I don't speak. And I have a difficult time relating to women I think." "You seem to be doing fine," I say. "This is different. You're... it's different." "So can I read it? I think I'd like to." "I think I'd like you to. We're still casting, and then there's a week of workshopping. No guarantees of a run. Are you free to come in and read for the director and me?" "Sure, I'd love to," I turn towards him in my seat. "Tell me more about her. Both the real her and the 'her' you've written." He talks, animatedly, for a long time. We finish our coffees as we discuss her, and the play -- how she was a serial adulteress, a woman preoccupied with being the center of attention, who fed off the desire of men. How her power came from her sexuality, and that it was also her weakness. "I should tell you, there's a bit of nudity. Would you be okay with that?" he says, almost nonchalantly. "I'm not sure anyone wants to see that, but I'm okay with it!" I joke. "I would," he says, so quickly that I can tell he instantly regrets it. Has he gone over a line? We were flirting but that is maybe too much. I can see it written on his face. "Sorry, I didn't mean..." he starts to say. "Yes you did," I say, moving my hand from my lap to rest on his warm thigh. "Maybe you will," I add, giving him a demure look through my fake lashes. When had I decided I was going to seduce him? Now? On the way over? When I bought this dress? Or was it really back when he phoned me, when I was sitting on the couch in Ellen's clothes? "How about we go somewhere else?" I hear myself ask in a low purr. He looks down at my hand and I follow his gaze to the unmistakable bulge in his blue jeans, just inches away from my shaped, red nails. "We could go back to my place," he says, sounding like a schoolboy. "I could give you the script to look over." His place is a lot closer than my Airbnb: three blocks walk, as I try to hide the discomfort of my new boots. I take his arm as we walk, leaning into him and talking excitedly about the play and casting, the workshops, the process. My hips bump into him as we walk. I'm overplaying it, I know, but I'm a woman on a mission. He keeps looking at me, studying me, trying to commit me to memory. I consider pouncing on him in the elevator when the doors close, but I stand beside him instead. Our hands almost touching, my fingers close to his. I see his nervousness reflected back at me in the mirrored doors as we climb floors to his apartment. I see myself reflected back as an older woman, curvy and confident, beautiful and sexy. She's smiling. I'm smiling. I'm in control. It's an awful cliche, of course, but I'm committed to it. It helps that I know him; that we were friends. It helps that I know the sort of woman he wants me to be and that it's the sort of woman I love being. My pinky finger strokes his and he strokes mine back. I realise I can't wait for him to see me naked. I want him to find me sexy and beautiful. The doors open and he leads the way and I follow willingly down the wide, smartly-decorated hallway. He wordlessly unlocks the door to reveal wooden floors and a small hallway. Instantly I know he doesn't live alone -- there are tasteful artworks on the wall and women's shoes next to his on the doormat. A small denim coat hangs on the coat stand. I understand his silence now, his nervousness. "Is your girlfriend home?" I ask pleasantly, stepping over the threshold univinted. "How did...?" He smiles. "No, she won't be home. Look, Ellen, maybe we shouldn't..." "Shouldn't what?" I ask, all innocence and sweetness. "You were going to give me a copy of the script? For later?" "The script? Yes of course! Just this way," he says, stepping past me and into a room off the hallway. He sounds ten tonnes lighter. It's so strange being with him like this, so different to me as Ellen. It's intoxicating. "Do you mind if I take off my boots?" I ask, not waiting for his response. My feet hurt and the break would be welcome. I unzip them in turn and slip my feet out, wiggling my nylon-covered toes and massaging my chafed heels. I raise a little smile at the sight of my toenails, chipped and still painted from last week. Does it make me more authentic or less, I wonder as I straighten my dress and follow Scott into the room he vanished into. The room turns out to be what looks like a spare bedroom and office, with a single bed and a large desk both dominating. The walls are covered in bookshelves, with lots of recognisable texts from my days at college. Scott closes a drawer just as I walk in and hands me a copy of the manuscript not even bound. I reach out and take it from him, studying it as if I've never seen it before. In fact I've seen this exact copy before, as it's the first one he printed. I've even read some of it. I turn it over in my hand and look at the title. "The Modern Oedipus?" I say, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "That was the working title," Scott says hastily, coming round from behind the desk to face me, leaning back on the worktop. He fully occupies his space, effortlessly being both at home and slightly wary of the situation. By contrast my posture is straight, my legs together and my neck long and -- even in this too-tight leopard print dress -- I am both occupying less space and dominating him. "What's the title now?" I ask, leafing through the pages in search of a familiar passage. "Stepmother," he says. "The other one was a bit too on the nose." He grins, that boyish grin that used to get him in so much trouble. Being on the other side of it for a change I can see why. For a moment, my heart flutters. "Well, that's much more direct," I reply, finding the passage I'm after. "Has she read this?" "What, my actual stepmother? God no." "Do you want her to? Do you want her to see it?" "That's a good question. I'm not sure. I guess yes. I mean I don't know." "You still think about her?" "Of course. I talk about her in therapy a lot." "Just in therapy?" I ask. "You ask a lot of insightful questions," he replies, again looking me up and down in the blink of an eye. "I'm an insightful woman," I reply, taking a step back and sitting down on the edge of the bed. "What pages will I have to read later?" "Near the front, act one scene three. The first time they met." "It's a pity it's not act three. 'I love to feel your eyes on me, undressing me,'" I read, quoting from the pages in front of me. "I love knowing you'll be thinking about my tits all day." "Did Kevin put you up to this?" he says, blushing furiously. There's two ways this could go. I could take my wig off triumphantly, and say 'fooled you' and hope that he's impressed enough to give me the part anyway. The only problem is that I don't want to. I don't want him to know I'm not the woman he thinks I am. I want him to want me, not to be impressed by me. So I choose the other way. "A little bit," I say with a soft laugh. "I'm sorry, I was just having a bit of fun with it. With you. I'm sorry!" I say again, trying to lighten the mood. Change the tone. It's all a joke. It's fine. I don't want you to ravish me. God I want him to ravish me. He laughs, nervously at first and then more relaxed as he feels the tension evaporate. "Oh my God Ellen, that's... that's hilarious," he says. "Oh that asshole! I thought that you... oh wow.... Ellen that's funny." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself. "I thought you might want to see me be a bit of man-eater," I say, standing up and fussing with my dress. "A sort of pre-audition audition?" I smile, taking a step forward. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." "Oh God. This whole time. Wow... You're good! You still want to audition right? This isn't that much of a setup?" "I really do. I think I might like to play this woman. I'd like to read what you wrote and see what I can with it and see if we're a match, you know? But I'm excited." "I'm excited too," he says. The bulge in his jeans confirms that, I think. "So, do you still need to see me naked?" I ask demurely, tongue in cheek. "Maybe later," he replies, laughing. "Let's not rush anything." Chapter 4 I repeat the journey home in the subway, the cars far less crowded in mid morning. I have a time and a place for later today and a manuscript. I need to change outfits. "Hello? Anyone home?" I call as I let myself into the airbnb. I unzip and kick off the boots immediately and make my way to my little bedroom. Happily it's still in the same state, in that it looks like someone transformed into a woman in there. But equally happily it means that even if someone did take a peek they didn't pack up all my things and call the cops. I reach behind me and work the zip down my back, feeling the relief of the taut fabric releasing me. It comes away easily all the way to my waist, and then takes a bit of wiggling over my ass until I'm free and can step out of it. Maybe it's just as well the seduction didn't go any further. In my pantyhose, spanx and bra I still feel less constrained. At home I'd put on a robe to preserve my modesty but here there's nothing that'll fit. I sigh, pick up the manuscript and pad through to the kitchen in my underwear. I've barely made a cup of coffee and sat down to look over the script when my phone rings. Scott. Of course it is. I clear my throat and try to ignore the feeling of the mask on my face or my boobs on my chest. I answer, and say "Hey," in my best Kevin impersonation. "Hey man how's it going?" Scott asks. I wriggle my padded backside a little further back onto the stool I'm sitting on and cross my legs at the thigh, feeling the nylon of my hose rubbing together. "Yeah not bad thanks. How's you?" "Are we okay?" he asks. "After yesterday. I'm sorry but..." "It's okay," I say, concentrating on my voice. "I wouldn't have given it to me either." "Aw man I'm so glad, I thought you'd be pissed," I can hear the relief in his voice and relaxation, so different to how he was talking to Ellen. "I thought maybe you'd sent Ellen to me as a joke." "A joke?" I laugh, brushing Ellen's hair behind my ear. "What happened?" "You're telling me you don't know?" "I swear. Wow, what did she do?" "I thought she was going to eat me!" "Um," I saw, faking ignorance. "What?" "Okay, so first of all, you didn't tell me she was a total milf. Jesus Kevin, she's a pin up!" I sit a little straighter. "You think she is?" I ask, my voice rising at the end of the question. "She's built like a 50's movie star! She turned up in this animal print dress and ... shit. It was intense. You told her about the part." It wasn't a question. "She just went for it, it was amazing. I've never met a woman like her." That is probably true. "I'm glad you liked her." I say. I'm smiling. Maybe blushing. The image of his bulging jeans pops back into my mind. "I love her. She's perfect." "Wow, amazing," I say. I feel so happy I could burst. He loves me. "So are you going to be in town long? We should catch up?" He asks, changing topic. I look down again at Ellen's long legs, her sweeping curves and ample bust. "Sorry, I don't think so. I'm going back to Connecticut." "I'm sorry man. Sorry it didn't work out. And sorry we can't hang out, like old times." "That's okay," I say. "You got Ellen." I turn my head towards the door and see, for the first time, the guy from earlier wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, leaning against the doorframe. He's looking at me with a broad grin, and gives me an honest-to-god wink. "I hope so. Well thanks for sending her to me. I owe you for that." "My pleasure," I say, not breaking eye contact with the guy who's just standing there. I know there can be no doubt that the woman from earlier, now sitting in her pantyhose and underwear, and talking in an unmistakably male voice, is their airbnb tenant in disguise. "Bye," Scott says and hangs up. I keep the phone by my ear for a few moments, not quite sure what to do. Should I be concerned? Afraid? He's not giving off that vibe. "Hi," he says casually. "How was your morning?" He walks into the kitchen and heads towards the coffee machine. "It was good," I say, my voice switching back up to Ellen's range and lowering my phone. It feels more natural with her face. If I'm honest, it feels more natural even without her face. "I didn't think anyone was home." "No shit," he says. "Coffee?" "Uh, no... thank you," I say, gathering my script and scooting off the stool. "I should go back to my room and put on some clothes." "You don't have to on my account," he says, putting a cup in the machine. "They're very impressive but fake tits aren't really my thing. And that dress from earlier didn't look very comfortable. Latte?" "Um," I say. "Sure. Why not. I'm ..." "Ellen. You said earlier. Or is it Kevin? I guess Ellen right now, but Kevin on the phone." He takes out his mug and puts in another. "I prefer Ellen," I say, hugging the pages against my chest. "I'm sure lots of people do." "Hey!" "I just mean you're an impressive female impersonator, that's all. Here you go," he hands me the hot mug, forcing me to put down the script. "I'm Iain. Both right now and on the phone," he adds with a smirk. "I'm not a female impersonator," I reply. "I'm an actor." "I'm cool with it. Drag. Crossdressing. Transgendered. Whatever." "I'm not... I'm not any of those things," I say, unsure why I'm getting into this discussion with a stranger. "Honestly, I'm just an actor. I'm just here for an audition. I just... I really want this part." Iain looks me up and down and shrugs. "I'll say." Chapter 5 "Ellen Bennet. Nice to meet you." I walk up to the table and shake the hands of Scott and the man sitting next to him -- the director whose name I've forgotten since yesterday. I'm wearing my other dress -- the white wrap dress that flatters my waist and bust but is loose around my hips. It's less sex kitten than this morning, more professional. Scott sneaks an obvious glance down my plunging neckline as I say my hellos, which earns him a conspiratorial wink. "Nice to meet you Ellen. I'm Adam and this is Scott, although he tells me you already met?" "That's right, he very kindly offered to talk over the part with me," I say, dialing up the Ellen charm to eleven. They are both staring at me, smiling, leaning forwards -- a stark contrast to yesterday when only Scott acknowledged me before staring resolutely at his script. I've learned that men want to impress Ellen, and I've learned to let them. "It's nice to see you again Ellen," Scott says. "I'm happy you decided to come in." "Where do you want me?" I ask both men. "Just a couple of steps back, so the camera can see you if that's okay. Do you need a glass of water?" "That's very kind, no I'm fine thank you," I say, taking two steps back in my heels. I wonder how many other women they've seen. I wonder if they're this nice to all of them. Part of me hopes not. I look at the camera -- just a mobile phone on a tripod -- and remember a girl there yesterday. She's not there today, it's just the three of us. "So I hope you boys are going to get my good side," I say, tilting my head and smiling for the camera. I've taken enough selfies as Ellen to know how to stand and how to angle my face to get the best look and so while they chuckle I subtly change my stance, my posture, my bearing and then face them. "Just start when you're ready," Scott says, and he's still looking at me, pupils dancing. Adam is just staring, his gaze fixed on me, undressing me, penetrating me. This dress is just held in place with two buttons on my left hand side. I could pop them in an instant and give them the same view that Iain had earlier. As if reading my mind I see Adam glancing at them, recognising the power those two little buttons have. I've got them both. "Darling," I start, using Ellen's classroom schoolmarm voice. "I think we need to have a talk." Preparing for this afternoon, reading the audition pages over and over, I had tried to understand this woman. I had tried to put myself in her shoes and see what she wanted, to move beyond the caricature that was written here. I wondered what was she feeling, what was she hiding? Most of all, I began to think of her as Ellen, a middle-aged, beautiful woman who had made mistakes and was searching for that spark, that surge of excitement and energy. When Scott and I had talked about this before it was very much from his point of view. I had a new perspective now, and I wanted to show it. I spoke the lines, trying to feel what she would feel -- nervous, excited, desired. This was Pete, and Scott and Chalmers and the kid at the video game store and every man who ever stared at me because they wanted me. I understand this woman who always looks her best, who wants to be admired, because I am her. In trying to understand her, I understood why I was standing here in all this makeup, this dress, these painful shoes -- why I was so desperate to be Ellen. That I was the best Ellen Bennet there was. As I near the end of my speech my hand drifts towards the buttons on my dress, fingering them as I speak, as I became this woman who was ready to give herself to this young man. On the last line, I pop one of the buttons and stop. All I can hear is my breathing, all I can feel is the weight of my breasts rising and falling. I look at the two men watching me -- they're holding their breath, their gaze fixed on the remaining, straining button. "Well, I hope that was okay," I say lightly, smiling at them and letting air back into the room. I take two steps towards them again, fastening my button as I go, and extending my hand. I like the skirt of this dress, it moves beautifully against my legs. "That was great Ellen thank you," Scott says, beaming. He takes my hand and shakes it gently, the way men do. "We'll be in touch," Adam says, taking one last long look at me. As I walk out I hope they're staring at my ass, trying to see the shape and curve of it despite this dress's best efforts to disguise it. Between the spanx and the control-top hose my padded posterior is pretty supported, but I throw an extra wiggle into my walk anyway. Chapter 6 "So you don't want to be a woman?" Iain asks. "No," I reply, removing the last of my fake nails. "And you don't get off on dressing up as a woman?" "No," I say, upending a bottle of make-up remover onto a cotton wool pad and getting to work on my eyelids. "Also, it's not dressing up." I'm sat at the vanity in the bedroom of the Airbnb, my dress from this afternoon's audition hangs next to the bodycon dress from this morning. My wig sits on the table in front of me, but my wig cap is still on. I'm in my underwear. Iain followed me into my room and won't stop asking me questions. "It looks like dressing up," he says. "You should go on Drag Race." "I'm not a drag queen," I say, watching my eyeshadow, mascara and eyeliner melt away. "Okay. You're a young guy who pretends to be an older sexy woman but not because you want to be a woman, or because you like it, or because you like showing off. You just do it because?" "I didn't say I didn't like showing off, I just said I wasn't a drag queen." I repeat the same process for the other eye. "I forgot, you're an actor. Pardon me." Iain gets up off the bed and walks towards me. "You don't have to keep doing the voice, it's fine. I know your secret." "Would you believe me if I told you," I pop open a box of wet wipes and start to remove the foundation from the mask. "When I'm dressed like this, it's easier to talk like this?" In truth, it hadn't occurred to me not to. "I do believe you," he says, standing right behind me. "I'm no expert but this is a lot of makeup. And other things. How convincing do you need to be?" "Very," I answer simply. "You've not had any surgery or anything?" "Nope." "Exactly how convincing are we talking here?" He asks, peering down at my boobs practically bursting out of the black pushup bra I'm wearing. "We just met, I'm not sure this sort of talk is appropriate," I say, wiping off the last of my makeup and unscrewing the bottle of solvent, the acetone smell filling the air. "Can we just leave it at 'very'?" I dab a little at the tiny seams around my eyes and start to work the small brush under the surface of my fake skin. In the mirror I see Iain ogling me, staring at my legs in pantyhose, my rounded, womanly thighs, my smooth, feminine mound. "Okay, how about this," he says, backing off. "If we were playing strip poker, when would the game be up? Bra?" I shake my head, working up under the forehead. "Didn't think so. But those big panties, I figure that's the end." I shake my head again, working on my nose, my upper lip and feeling the mask slowly peeling away. "Okay but you're a guy right, so... " he continues, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken as he sits back down on the bed, watching. I peel the rest of my Ellen mask off my face and lay it carefully on the table before slathering my face in moisturizer. The mask is gone, the tightness on my skin is loosened and I feel the air on my face. I don't even need to try to change my voice, I know that it will just happen. "Do you mind giving a girl some privacy? I need to take the rest of this stuff off," I say, my voice an octave lower. I wanted some time alone, to think about today and what happened. I left the audition feeling raw and naked in lots of ways. I'd been forced to think about what I was doing, who I was, and why I'd been so keen to get back to being Ellen. It was more than just that I missed her. Without her I was nothing. "So are you gay? You like fooling straight guys?" Iain asks, not moving from the bed. "He isn't straight," I say, remembering back in college. He was the only one of us never to have a girlfriend. We all assumed he was gay, although he never said and I never asked. He's got a girlfriend now though. "Or at least I don't think he is. Anyway, I'm not gay," I say, without much confidence. Unbidden, I think about Scott's bulging jeans earlier, the thrill of his fingers caressing mine, the joy of flirting and then the very naked memory of Wayne Chalmers, his stiff cock in my mouth. I'm not repulsed by these memories; quite the opposite. "Ellen is straight," I say instead, standing up from the chair and pushing the pantyhose down over my round bottom before sitting down again and carefully working them down my smooth legs. "Do you think of yourself as two different people?" "No," I say, pulling off the pantyhose from my feet and dropping them silently onto the carpet. "No I guess not. But Ellen is... She's a character. She's not me, does that make sense?" "It does, I think," Iain says, looking thoughtful. "Has Ellen been on dates with guys?" "Yup," I say. I reach behind my back and undo the hooks on my bra. He's not going anywhere, I think, and what does it matter? It's not real. These aren't real. That doesn't stop me feeling observed as I slip the straps of the bra off my shoulders and pull it off my chest, folding it in half along the gore and laying it on the table in front of me. "Did they know?" Iain's voice is quieter, I look up at him in the mirror and I'm amused to see that he has turned his head so as not to look at my bare breasts. I run a wet wipe around the seams and loosen them off. "He did actually. Although I didn't know that he knew. It's a long story." A story I still don't fully understand. "What about the guy this morning. Did he know?" "Definitely not. But that wasn't a date," I say as my right breast comes free. I lay it reverently on the table and rub some moisturizer into my red pectoral and then get to work on the left. "That dress made it a date." "You liked that?" "I did actually. He's a lucky guy. You said Ellen was straight, does that mean Kevin has a girlfriend?" "I did," I say, peeling my left breast off and setting it next to it's pair and repeating the moisturizer process. "We broke up. How long have you and James been together?" "Six years, but I'm not letting you change the topic yet. Why'd you break up?" "Can we talk about this later? I really want to get out of this," I say, gesturing at the spanx I'm still wearing, but meaning the prosthetics underneath. "Just take it off, I won't look." "It's more .... involved than that." "You weren't kidding earlier. Wow. I have to see this now, and then I'll go, I promise." "This is already weird for a guy I met this morning." "You're not a real woman. What does it matter?" I don't have a comeback to that, but it matters. It matters to me. "Fine," I say. "But you get out after." I stand up and tug and paw at the tight flesh-colored underwear, working them over my padded ass and wider hips. Iain sits perfectly still as I peel them down, revealing my bare plump bottom to him. I bend over to pull the tight girdle down my thighs and breathe a sigh of relief when they get to above me knee and can move down without effort. I step out of the spanx and turn around, moving from behind the chair and table to face Iain, my neat trimmed bush and perfectly flat crotch on display. He's sitting forward, his eyes glued to where my cock isn't. "Holy shit!" Iain says. "I can see why your girlfriend left you." "Get out." Chapter 7 It was, of course, when I had finished removing my hip and bottom prosthetics and fake girly bits that Scott called Ellen. I was back in my boxers and tshirt when I saw his number flash up on her phone. I take a second to find her voice and answer. "I was wondering when you were going to call," I say in Ellen's voice, concentrating like hell. "I'm sorry it wasn't sooner. It's been a day. How are you?" "I'm good. How are you?" "I wondered if you wanted to get a drink?" Shit. I just took all this stuff off. "I'd love to but I'm all put away for the night. Some other time?" I say, sitting down on the bed. "What about next week?" "What happens next week?" I ask, my posture changing, my mannerisms transforming into her. Shoulders back, imaginary tits out, legs crossed. "The workshop. You got the part." I let out an honest-to-goodness scream down the phone. "Oh my God that's amazing," I say. "Thank you. Thank you!" "Your audition was very memorable. Both... auditions." "So you're thinking about me," I say teasingly. We're back to this game. "I am," he says in kind. "I think that's the way you like it." The bulge. The jeans. The caress. "I've been thinking about you too," I confess. Fuck, why did I say that? Because it's true. "Is that right?" He says. I can hear his charming smile over the phone. "Ellen, is it wrong of me to say that I was... oh fuck. What I mean is that I think that this morning, maybe, could have gone further and... I would have liked that." "I bet you would have," I say. "I promise you'll see me naked next week." "I can't wait," he says. "What about I come over to where you are now for a preview?" I look around the room at the various clothes, underwear, prosthetics and makeup. Ellen in pieces. "I'm sorry, you'll just have to be patient." "Send me a picture," he says, after a pause. "And I'll send you one back." I'm silent for a moment, considering what to do. "Okay," I say. "I'll think about it. Good night Scott." "Come on Ellen," he almost pleads. "Something to tide me over to next week." "I said I'll think about it," I laugh. "Good night." I hang up on him and consider my options. Fuck it. I pull off my t- shirt and pick up my brassiere, hooking it back on my naked chest. It looks preposterous, the large cups empty and deflated. I slip a fake breast into each cup and try to position them where the seams don't show. I take a picture. It looks not bad, my boobs in the pushup bra, a hint of nipple showing through the lace. What would be better though would be some strands of hair showing too. I snap on my wig cap and then tug the wig into place, running my fingers through it and letting the hair sit on my chest before taking another shot. It's better. I hit send before I can regret it and put everything away again, put on my t-shirt and go out to see if Iain still wants to chat. "Hey," I say, finding him in the kitchen reading a paperback. "Hi," he replies, setting down the book. "Finished talking to your boyfriend?" "Haha, he's not my boyfriend." "He's the guy you got dolled up for this morning though right?" "Well yeah, but..." "I know. Just an actor." "Exactly. I was wondering, I'm supposed to be going tomorrow but..." "You want to stay longer." Iain finished. "At least another week." "Are you free?" "James will know, I'll ask when he gets back, but honey, you are the most interesting thing to happen to me in ages. I'll find space for you, I promise. Glass of wine?" I nodded enthusiastically. We sit in their living room and chat over prosecco, and I find out a lot more about him: That he was only a year older than me; that he's a dancer with the NYC corp de ballet. Both of which explained how he was home a lot and also how fit and muscular he was. By the time James, his partner, comes home an hour later we are giggling on the couch together like old friends. Ellen's phone buzzes not long after that, and I look at it without thinking, opening the picture message to see -- in all its portrait glory -- Scott's very stiff, very thick dick. I am momentarily stunned into silence, which both Iain and James spot instantly. I keep looking at it, my breathing deepening, my lips parting. Well, I think my plan has worked. "Has your boyfriend sent you a pic?" Iain asks, mischief in his eyes. "You should have seen her this morning James, she was a knockout." I feel myself blushing, still looking at the picture. "He has a girlfriend," I say, and then instantly wondered why I had said that and not "I'm straight."